I always knew there was something wrong with me. Other kids didn’t understand why I acted the way I did around adults. I spent my entire childhood wondering what the hell was wrong with me, afraid to say or do anything, afraid to interact with other people.
30 years later …I know that the problem really wasn’t me. It was the monster who calls himself my father. The beast in me wants vengeance for him handicapping my emotional and psychological well being …vengeance for leaving me afraid to have my own children …vengeance for being afraid to get married for fear I’d end up marrying someone like my father. But this same beast has given me a voice. This same beast gives me the courage to stand up to those who try to use me as a doormat. This same beast drives me everyday to heal the deep wounds and to unlearn all the nasty crap that was beaten into my head as a child and teenager.
I used to worry that everyone was right when they’d say, “You’re just like your father.” I now realize that I’m NOTHING like my father. I just managed to pull myself out of a fucked up mess of a “family.” IT HAS BEEN HELL!!! Forty years of being told that I am nothing, being emotionally neglected and abused, told repeatedly that people don’t like me, told that I don’t deserve friends, that everything I have belongs to my father, that I am a pet to be kept at his discretion, rewarded for good behavior or punished for failures.
There was nothing that I had that he could not take away, everything I had and everything I was, according to him, originated with him and therefore was his to control and do with as he pleased. If I tried to express my feelings I was greeted with anger. “It’s not okay to cry. It’s not okay to show your feelings. It’s not okay to express your opinion. In fact, you are a child – be seen and NEVER heard.”
My father would hit or grab and shake my mother when she did things he didn’t like. He still does. He only ever spanked me twice. When I got to be a teenager he’d just shake his fist in my face. I never understood this. Ultimately I think it was because he was afraid if he hit me he’d end up exposing himself publicly. If I were to report him for child abuse, or if one of my teachers, seeing unexplained bruises on me, would have brought his “I’m the perfect husband and father” public mask crashing down.
I didn’t start to understand what my father had done to me until I graduated from college. The more distance I put between us, the more I understood that I wasn’t the problem. This was wrong. Abuse isn’t just about getting physically beaten, it can also be about getting the emotional and psychological stuffing beaten out of you everyday.
Thank the gods for my grandparents who looked out for me and sent me to college. My father made no bones about refusing to work. He said he “had a problem with authority,” and that no one had the right to tell him how to do his job. When I was 7, he was fired from the only job he’d had. So my father forced my mother to get the paying jobs, and then promptly got her fired from every one of them. He’d try to tell her bosses how to run their businesses or he’d tell lies or exaggerated truths about her boss around town. No one would stand for it, and my mother paid the price.
When I was 5 or so, my father got into a fight with his parents. I didn’t see them again for many decades. I only know who my relatives are because I see them on my family tree, there are only two or three I would even recognize if I was face to face with them. The ones I do know are narcissistic just like my father, so I don’t mourn the loss anymore. Most of them are just as toxic to my well being as my father is.
My father’s mother, his brother and his wife came to our house on the day of my high school graduation. My father’s mother said, “Here is a card for you. We’re going to your cousin’s graduation.” With that, she and my aunt and uncle turned their backs on me, got in their fancy car, and left me standing there. They were just there to rub it in my face that my cousin was more important than I was.
My father is a saint in the eyes of many people. He gives lavish gifts and bails people out of financial trouble, when he can ill afford to do it himself. He invites strangers to holiday family meals and springs it on us at the last possible moment. Meanwhile, utility bills go unpaid, disconnect and repo notices arrive. In the past, if he couldn’t scrape the money together to do these “humanitarian” things that people “love” him for, then he’d send my mother to beg from her family. Later, he would demand the money from me. The last time he did this to me, I threw him out of my home, returned the last of the “gift” money he had given me for Christmas, and told him never to come back.
My father has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He blames his abuses of my mother and me on PTSD, for which he is considered disabled by the VA, but the truth is, my father is simply a manipulative, truth stretching, self-centered, self-serving, “The world revolves around me, I will live my life anyway I see fit, I don’t care if it’s legal, I’m never wrong, everyone is entitled to my correct opinion, the sun and the universe revolve around me” NARC!!
A huge weight has been lifted from my life. I still find myself wanting to cower when someone gets in my face or publicly criticizes me. Sometimes I have to take anxiety meds, but I can get angry now. I can scream and yell. I can say no and not cave later. I can cry. I can laugh. I’m learning slowly how to love. The anger reminds me that I am a person. I’m not someone’s possession. I’m not a doormat, and I deserve better.
I’ve only posted one thing on here thus far, and I wanted to first thank everyone for their kind words. It’s strange how much helpful it is just knowing you’re not alone in this.
It has been over a year now since I left. I’ve been slowly finding myself again. A day doesn’t go by, though, that I don’t remember something about the abuse. What gets to me the most is how many friends I lost because of him. No one ever wants to believe that they’re friends with a monster. So why would they believe the “crazy ex-girlfriend” when she shows them what’s behind the mask? Sometimes I wonder if I really am just crazy. I wonder if the amount of loss was really worth getting away. What scares me more is that I don’t know if it was. Are the people that I trusted that blind or am I just nuts?
Has anyone in The Band dealt with this kind of regret before or have any advice? While trying to move forward I can’t help but take stock of what is left and see how much that was lost because of one jackass. It’s hard to move forward when I keep looking back.
Both of my parents are narcissistic. I was their golden child, which was terrible for me. My whole life, I suffered with guilt because I love my sisters and could see how my parents were neglecting them. I punished myself for having more than they did. I gave all of my money away to my mother and sisters. My life was crap. I worked like an animal my whole life, and have absolutely nothing to show for it, no money, no family, no life, nothing.
Since my breakdown, I realized that my sisters had something very important that I don’t have: they can deal with our mother. They don’t fear her. They just lived their lives with a normal sense of what was right or wrong. Since I found The Band and others sites, I can see why. I recognize that I have suffered the most damage of all of us. While my sisters live their lives, I am in a kind of limbo. They have their children and their experiences while I just struggle for acceptance and survival. I could never relax and have peace. I feel like I have gone nowhere, like my life was a black box. I was not there.
With a crazy, engulfing, malignant mother I could not breathe. I could not rest. Nothing was ever enough, she always needed more. She was never satisfied unless my life was miserable from all of her complaints, from drawing all my energy, making me feel bad about everything, and destroying my self esteem. She poisoned me with her “misery.” My mother had tried to give me her roll taking care of my sisters. I was just a child! All the manipulation and loss of myself eventually made me sick.
It hurt me a lot that she could never ask me how I was doing. One day, I confronted her. I told her she was never there for us, and she gave us no more love and care than if we had been houseplants. She wouldn’t look me in the eye when she answered. Her excuse was that she was always working. While yes, she did work a lot, she was also out having fun, partying like hell! She had plenty of friends, was engaged in politics, and was out all the time, but she wants me to believe her life was a mess because of us. Motherhood was a burden for her.
For the first time in my life, I had the courage to confront her with questions. I didn’t ask her everything I wanted because I was still afraid of her, but that was still a big step. She changed the subject right away, telling me she needed money. I could not believe it! That’s the way it always is with her, she wants my money. Seeing how I have no money, I’m useless.
For four days, I was so upset I couldn’t sleep. It felt like she had grabbed my insides and ripped them out. It took me several days to recover, and I was sure I never be able to face her again. I am ashamed of how weak I am in front of her.
My baby sister supports me and understands me. She really loves me. My other sister became aggressive and horrible, just like our mother. And like our mother, she tries to make my life hell. We have one hell of a dysfunctional family.
Thanks to The Band, I now know why my life is the way it is. Now, that I know what it means to be a golden child, I can finally permit myself to look after me instead of everyone else. I can see now how much care I need, how lonely I’ve been. And best of all, I know now that I deserve it!
I’d always believed that my mother loved me and all her interference in my life was to make me better, stronger. Blindly, I trusted that she meant for me to be happy. But I also knew that … something was wrong. I never could do right by her and I just knew that something was wrong with me. She was inside my head, under my skin, causing me to drown. I lost my strength and discovered that I feared her.
These revelations took over a year – it was a whole process for me.
My life had fallen apart and I went to a specialized therapy clinic for help. There, I learned I was codependent. My therapist actually told me “you have a bad mother, you need to protect yourself from her.”
I was shocked.
I talked to my mother as I came out of the clinic and decided to break contact with her. Afterward, I felt so guilty and sunk into a very deep depression. I think I put all my energy into avoiding contact with her. I was stuck in bed, only leaving to go to therapy.
I couldn’t understand my mother’s attitude toward me. How could she be so crazy insensitive to what I was going through? I was obsessed with the question “why?” After seven months of therapy, I discovered that it was helpless to believe there was a way to save our relationship. I remember my therapist saying “no, I don’t think so. Any relationship with her, you’ll only get hurt.”
I cried so much. It was such a big loss. I finally understood how much she’d taken from me. How she enslaved me, took away everything I got, people that I loved. My mother had bullied me all of my life. The pain was indescribable; I was destroyed. Crying every day, having nightmares all night.
None of this made sense. I felt that she’d only rest once I’d killed myself. How could she be so awful to me? I did everything for her; gave her more than I had to give. Was it really just jealousy? Why? Why had she been so cruel to me? My therapist explained that she’s a narcissistic mother; she has narcissistic personality disorder. I was her extension. It was quite confusing so I turned to the internet for answers. I didn’t know what having a narcissistic mother meant.
There I found it. I understood the way I’d felt my whole life. I understood her attitude toward me.
I learned the tactics of psychological manipulation: invalidation, gaslighting, parentification, triangulation, narcissistic rage. Convincing me to do the opposite of what my gut said. Denying my needs.
I was deadly shocked for I don’t know, months? I haven’t really recovered. My symptoms increased, I developed panic disorder, my self-esteem melted, felt so insecure talking to people or making changes in my life.
For five months, I stopped dealing with it – it was just too much. I’m still unable to deal with anything or anyone. I feel lost, I’m afraid that I’m too damaged to be able to be happy. I’m paralyzed. I have no idea who I am.
I’m 40 and I lost my childhood, my innocence, my adult life. I am sick, depressed, lonely, and terrified.
I discovered The Band Back Together Project, for which I am very grateful. Thanks to reading your stories, I now know that I did the right thing in stopping contact to my mother. That was really killing me.
I can understand all the pain I’m feeling. How badly I’m grieving this loss. To top it off, I discovered that my father also has narcissistic personality disorder.
I’ve been badly abused all of my life. No wonder I’m unable to do what I want and need, how absolutely everybody in my life has abused me, why I can’t stand up for myself.
Knowing that I am not alone and understanding my symptoms gives me hope. I understand that I need treatment and support. I’ll return to therapy which I hope can help me to learn to feel angry, to defend myself, to stop feeling guilty all the time. To allow me to have things, a family, someone that treats me well. I hope I’ll never have abusers in my life again.
I wish I could see what life is like. Until now, I’ve never had a life of my own to lead; I was just a stupid toy, trying to please everyone for love and attention. I want to learn to respect myself and set clear emotional boundaries with other people.
The hardest part is to see how damaged I am. That’s really scary.
Thank you, Band Back Together for giving me the opportunity to speak out. I don’t need to be ashamed; I was abused, I am a victim. Thank you for showing me that.
Can you, The Band, share your stories about being an adult child of narcissistic parents?
I really want to believe this emotional trauma will end and I will, at long last, be free.
I’m not a sentimental mom – I don’t save everything my kids own to cherish forever. Sure, some things are special, but others I’ve never felt attached to.
My first son’s crib? Take that away. Don’t need it. It served as a toddler bed from the time he was 18 months until he got a big boy bed at age … I don’t know. When he had his little brother had to share a room because I was pregnant with my fourth son.
See? Not sentimental.
My third son was kicked out of his crib and moved into the bedroom with the first to give his crib to the fourth. My oldest got a real bed and we said goodbye to his toddler bed.
Life changes man, life changes.
My fourth was the second baby to use this crib – a gift from my mom for our second son.
Our second son that never came home. Well, I guess he did.
Our second son was a full-term stillbirth. The crib was his. A crib he never got to use; not for even a minute. Unless you count me leaning on it while I was heavily pregnant.
This was a fancy $500 crib that we didn’t even put together until I was 38 weeks pregnant because we were lazy and busy with our oldest son, Jules, who was seventeen months. For a while I blamed Joel’s death on this; obviously I didn’t prove that I wanted him because it took us so long to paint and fix up his room. Logically he died because we didn’t put his crib together.
That, The Band, is just one of the many insane things you think when your baby dies and you’re trying to figure out why. Because babies don’t just die. There has to be a reason, even if it’s silly and pathetic.
After we found out that Joel was dead, one of the worst moments was coming home and going to take a bath. I was surrounded by baby stuff. My husband went to that bedroom and shut that door. We had to block that out. That was the only way. That door was both literally and figuratively shut. His urn was placed in there after his service. His funeral flowers, too.
Over the next year, the room had magic and hope again when Blair came into this world, our rainbow baby that survived. It was a little hard turning Joel’s room into Blair’s, but we did it. Joel came into our bedroom. His crib was still his crib though, even though it was in Blair’s room and being used by Blair.
By the time Blair was ready for a big boy bed, I’d gotten pregnant with our fourth son, Reid. Now it was Reid’s turn to use the crib. Blair moved into Jules room and Blair’s room turned into Reid’s room which still housed Joel’s crib.
I don’t know why it was Joel’s crib but it was. It’s that one item allowed me to have a piece of him and to share a piece of him with his younger brothers. Even though he never used it, he passed that down to them.
A couple years later, Reid is becoming a big boy. He needs a toddler bed. Thankfully the $500 crib converts into a bed but the problem with that is that it’ll no longer be Joel’s crib. It becomes Reid’s bed. And even though it’s been five years of grief and trying to find ways to let go … I can’t let go of Joel’s crib. If I convert it, Joel’s crib is gone.
Then what do I have left?
I’ll make another painful decision and piece by piece, we will take Joel’s crib apart. Tears will flow, like everything else that normally involves him. We will load it up and store it at my parents, who understand. When I asked if we could store a crib there, they asked why I was saving a crib. When they asked who’s crib it was, I replied, “Joel’s.”
Without hesitation, my parents said, “Sure, we can find a safe place for that.” I’ll buy a toddler bed for Reid and, in a couple years, I’ll buy him a real bed instead of converting Joel’s crib for him.
Sometimes I wonder how this story will play out when I’m old and dying.
Will I find peace?
Will I continue to run his story through my head over and over, asking why?
Will my chest still hurt?
Will my eyes still pour tears?
Will the events run on a loop through my head like a bad movie?
Will my last thoughts be, “what could I have done differently?”
I won’t know until I get there. But I do know that some memories aren’t painful. Knowing that my rainbow babies – my pregnancies after we lost Joel – used Joel’s crib doesn’t make me sad.
